


guns and chocolates

by lumielle



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Blood and Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Secret Organizations, White Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 05:25:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14013144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumielle/pseuds/lumielle
Summary: Risking their lives might well be as much of a White Day tradition as the exchange of chocolates, Iwaizumi thinks.





	guns and chocolates

**Author's Note:**

> i just wanted to see iwaoi roasting each other while fighting baddies thats it thats the entire premise of this story

 

“If you get blood on your suit I’ll kill you.”

Iwaizumi cursed, ducking out of the way as a storm of bullets hailed down on them, digging holes into the metal pillars that held up the ceiling. Instinctively, he spun around to check if Oikawa was alright.

“Are you—”

“Don’t even _try_ , Iwaizumi Hajime. You have no right to ask me that tonight.” Oikawa’s voice erupted like a fuming volcano, five paces behind Iwaizumi. His eyes shot lightning at him, sharp as knives and just as deadly. “If it weren’t for you and your idiotic heroism, we wouldn’t even be here right now!” The way he slipped more bullets into his revolver’s cylinder was forceful, his movements clipped.

“Are we really having this conversation?” Iwaizumi hissed through gritted teeth, peeking over a stack of wooden storage boxes to see where the enemies had gone. There were at least a dozen of them, minus the two they had knocked out on their way in. Still a handful.

Oikawa barked out a laugh. “You should have asked me that _before_ ditching our date for work. _Again_.”

Iwaizumi had no time to make a retort. While Oikawa had talked, he had let his guard down, and it was only by a hair’s width that he dodged the nightstick aimed at his brow bone. His hand twitched towards his own weapon as he jumped back, eyes squinted at the dark figure closing in on him. Muffled grunts behind him told Iwaizumi that Oikawa was in a similar predicament, but he spared himself the trouble of looking around.

Two shots and a bloodcurdling squelching noise. The sound of a body thumping to the floor. “Ugh, can’t we get one minute to ourselves?” Oikawa groused.

“If that’s your only concern,” Iwaizumi said dryly, eyes trained on the masked face of his own opponent. The guy had his stick pointed at him again, shoulders tense and feet planted firmly into the dust. Echoing footsteps filled the air around them, announcing enemy backup. Iwaizumi pulled his M-9 Bayonet from his belt, feeling the handle slide along his palm until he had a firm, practiced grip on it. The combat knife would make a nice addition to the guy’s black outfit — a dash of dark gray surrounded by scarlet blossoms, stuck between a pair of ribs.

Iwaizumi lunged first. He ducked to avoid the nightstick and rolled onto the floor, kicking the enemy’s legs out from under him. The man hit the floor with a dull thud and he gasped audibly, but he tried to get back on his feet immediately, stick swinging. Iwaizumi had to be quick. He slammed one of his elbows into the guy’s jaw in an upward motion and used the moment of disorientation to kick the nightstick out of his hand. It flew into the air and came down meters away, leaving Iwaizumi’s opponent weaponless. With the blade at the man’s throat and his body weight holding him down, Iwaizumi had the upper hand.

“Where’s the hostage?” he snarled. “And hurry up, or that guy’s going to kill us _both_.”

“You’re not wrong,” Oikawa called, the fury in his voice distinct and sharp. More gun shots pierced the thick air in the warehouse. Oikawa wasn’t usually this trigger-happy, so Iwaizumi was only half sure he wouldn’t follow up on that promise.

Small eyes glared at Iwaizumi from a slit in the mask. “I’m not afraid of you,” the man hissed. “You can’t kill us all.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. Always the same empty threats. He dug the knife into blotchy skin; it didn’t go through all the way, but a pretty little bead of crimson slid along the knife’s teeth. That combined with the pressure sufficed to get a reaction. The man choked and tried pushing Iwaizumi off, but to no avail.

“Where’s the hostage?” Iwaizumi reiterated, his patience wearing thin. Their reservation must have expired by now, which meant that he was in deep shit. Oikawa had killed at least half of the enemies on his own, and he was still going.

A bullet grazed the man’s face, tearing away a strip of the mask. Iwaizumi flinched. He snapped his head up to yell at his partner. “Quit it! You could have hit me, idiot!”

“Hurry up or I won’t miss the next time round,” Oikawa threatened, sparring with another masked figure with the ease of someone crocheting a hat. His movements lacked their usual lightness and grace. He was a twist of heavy punches and bared teeth, feet pounding on the floor every time he took a step.

“Back door,” Iwaizumi’s target hissed. “Up the stairs, last room on the left side.”

Iwaizumi blinked. He was almost offended that Oikawa’s words had worked rather than the blade pressed to the guy’s throat. Not one second too late he got to his feet. Before the man could attempt anything at all, another bullet hit him, dead center. It went through his chest, blood spraying the dark fabric of his shirt. The man let out a panicked sob, squirming on the floor, shaky hands feebly patting at the bullet wound.

Oikawa landed next to him with a scoff, his face greasy with sweat. There was not a single drop of blood on him.

“Your aim is off,” Iwaizumi remarked, face placid.

“I was aiming at you,” Oikawa spat, reloading his revolver. He offered a thin smile before he finished what he had started. Iwaizumi did not look away as Oikawa fired, watching the light go out behind those small eyes like a snuffed candle. “That was the last one,” Oikawa said matter-of-factly. His eyes were cold. While he slipped his revolver back into its holster, Iwaizumi allowed himself a moment to glance over him. The pristine white of his sleek cut suit made his skin stand out more, flushed dark from exertion. The cerulean silk tie around his neck flapped with the movement before it fell back into place. Oikawa’s shoes were dusty, but they looked cleaner than any of Iwaizumi’s clothes.

“What are you looking at, Iwa-chan? The job isn’t finished yet.”

Right. Iwaizumi had almost forgotten. “Let’s go,” he said, leading the way. Oikawa followed, always one step behind.

“I hope you know that you’re sleeping on the couch tonight,” he said as they kicked in the door and bounded up the stairs, the walls painted a wispy neon green from the emergency exit sign. “Not even on White Day you’ll let it rest. A pity, really.”

Iwaizumi exercised a great deal of self control to not grab Oikawa by the shoulders and shake him to his senses. There were more pressing issues to be dealt with. “I’ll take the couch over letting someone innocent die any day,” was all he said in response. He knew that they had done the right thing by taking this impromptu job, even if it meant sacrificing one of the rare evenings that were supposed to be reserved for some well earned alone time. Somewhere beneath his pettiness, Oikawa knew this too.

They reached the door the man had mentioned, and Iwaizumi stopped to listen in case there were guards around. All was quiet. Too quiet.

“I’ll go in first,” Oikawa said, but Iwaizumi shook his head. When he opened his mouth no sound came out, forcing Oikawa to read his lips. _Cameras. They’re watching._ Anyone else might have mistaken the little black dots in the corner for insects or mold, but to a practiced eye, they were obvious.

Oikawa rolled his eyes, striding over until he was right in front of the cameras. He pulled his revolver from the holster, flipped the cameras the bird, and then shot them one by one with irritating precision.

“You’re being dramatic,” Iwaizumi said. “If the footage got saved somewhere they’ll have a clear picture of your face, idiot.”

“Well, if they come after me, my face will be the last thing they ever see,” Oikawa said, his lips a dangerously thin line. “Let’s get a move on, I want to be home before midnight.”

Iwaizumi nodded, readying himself. His Bayonet was still mostly clean and gleaming from when he last polished it, waiting to get its first proper taste of flesh.  When he pushed down the handle, it gave immediately, and the door swung open to expose a square window embedded in a gray cement wall. Colorless static flickered idly on a flat screen in the far corner of the room. A flash of movement over to his right caught Iwaizumi’s eye, but before he could even get a look at the hostage, a deafening bang flooded all of his senses. For a long, silent moment, he thought the bullet had missed. The numbness that paralyzed him one second was gone the next, dissipated like a rug pulled out from under his feet, and his knees ached when he hit the floor. Wetness trickled down his right thigh, staining the pretty anthracite color of the slacks that Oikawa had picked out for him. Pain surged up his leg, the synapses in his system bursting into flames. _Embarrassing_ , he thought, pressing his palm to the wound to try and keep the bleeding to a minimum. He’d never gotten shot this early on.

“Iwa-chan—” Oikawa started, the pitch of his voice slightly higher than usual.

“I’m fine,” Iwaizumi lied, scrambling to his feet. “Don’t worry about me, go get that asshole instead.”

Oikawa’s eyes lingered on him for a second, glassed over with rage and worry, before he flung himself inside the room, revolver loaded and ready to pop off.

Iwaizumi limped after him, eyes searching around until he found what he was looking for. The hostage was a girl, young, blonde and pale. Unconscious. She was tied to a chair, her head hanging low on her shoulder. Iwaizumi felt for a pulse and sighed with relief when a weak flutter reached the pads of his fingers. He wanted to cut her free, but there was still someone in the room with them, the guy Oikawa was fighting with.

Oikawa had shed his suit jacket; it lay crumpled on the floor. Patches of sweat were spread around his armpits, but he was still as agile as if he had just woken up from eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. The man he was trying to disarm was at least a head taller than him, he had a broad build and biceps that rivaled Iwaizumi’s own. His movements were slower than Oikawa’s, but his stance was unwavering. A booming laugh erupted from his lungs every time he parried one of Oikawa’s hits, his rugged face turning into a plane of crooked wrinkles and scars. Oikawa shot twice, but both bullets fizzed past their target.

Why wasn’t the other guy shooting? He’d had no qualms about firing at Iwaizumi, so why was he holding back now? Was he scared he’d hit the girl? Or, Iwaizumi’s brain supplied grimly, was he just toying with them?

“Help Yachi-san!” Oikawa yelled, still ensnared in the crude dance of survival with the other man. “I’ve got this under control!”

The thought displeased Iwaizumi, a sour taste of bile working its way up his throat. They could not underestimate the enemy. It had taken the investigations team weeks to get a lead on where they had taken the hostage while demanding her wealthy mother to pay ransom, and it had taken a lot of work to corner them here. Success was indispensable.

Pink and purple patches of light flew over Yachi’s pallid face as the city night roared to life outside the building. Car horns blared through the veil of noise that sat in the window seals, waiting to fill the inside. With clenched teeth, Iwaizumi used his Bayonet to cut the ropes around Yachi’s wrists and ankles, catching her slim form in his arms as she toppled out of her seat. It was a difficult feat to lift her. She wasn’t heavy, but she couldn’t be called anything but a deadweight at this point, limbs dangling helplessly. The bullet nestled deeply into the flesh of Iwaizumi’s thigh did little to help the process; it burned like hell, and every movement seemed to fuel the fire. His pant leg was a mess of bloody strips of fabric and skin, and he wanted nothing more than to be allowed to pass out. A few steps were manageable, but it wasn’t long before the pressure on his leg became too much to bear and he lowered Yachi back onto the floor.

A yelp of pain ripped Iwaizumi’s eyes off the hostage and back to the scene of the fight. Oikawa was trapped in a headlock, the other man’s muscles bulging with the effort of keeping him still.

“You’re ruining my date,” Oikawa spat, ramming his knees into thin air. Sparks were flying from his eyes like angry fireworks. His gun hand was jittering, knuckles white.

“It’s going to be your last,” the man laughed, tightening his hold around Oikawa’s neck. Painfully slowly, he procured the same pistol he had used against Iwaizumi from the back pocket of his pants. “Where do you want it? Heart? Or straight through that little brain of yours?”

A dangerous glint flashed across Oikawa’s eyes, highlighted and washed out again by the glittering city lights that formed an eerily beautiful backdrop to the scene playing out in front of Iwaizumi. Oikawa swung his arm, a war cry on his lips, and elbowed the other man’s stomach. The moment of unrestrained freedom he had gained lasted very briefly, just long enough for Oikawa to focus, aim and shoot.

Silence fell like snow in April, sudden and unexpected. Everything happened in slow motion as Iwaizumi’s brain assembled the pieces of information thrown at him. Oikawa’s eyes widened in shock, their chocolate brown dyed black and blue and red from the billboards and streetlights, and his mouth fell open in a silent exclamation of surprise. His thumb fumbled with the hammer, his forefinger yanking back the trigger, but no bullets were expelled. He had run out of ammunition.

The realization hit Iwaizumi like a freight train; it went straight to his gut, a sickening weight dropped inside him like a bomb. He slipped around in a puddle of his own blood, knees chafing against the floor, eyes still glued to Oikawa’s blank face. Yachi’s captor wasted no time, raising his own weapon to end Oikawa’s life with a manic grin stretching his lips.

White fog swirled behind Iwaizumi’s eyelids, the blood loss making him dizzy. It was only the adrenaline speeding through his veins that kept him conscious enough to throw his last bit of help Oikawa’s way.

“Tooru!” Oikawa’s given name fell from his mouth like a plea as Iwaizumi grabbed his Bayonet and flung it towards his partner, shards of light reflecting off the spinning blade. Within this minimal pocket of time, the room had turned into a morbid kaleidoscope of life and death. Oikawa gasped when his fingers closed around the knife — the blade dug a long trench into his palm, scarlet dripping down his wrist. He bit back the tears pooling at the edges of his eyes and gripped the slippery handle with as much force as the wound would allow.

Iwaizumi watched through bleary eyes and through a cloud of haze, but with a flimsy breath of hope in his lungs. Without hesitation, Oikawa plunged the knife into the other man’s neck.

The gun went off at the same time blood started spitting from his sliced jugular; a metallic clunk followed as the weapon fell to the floor. Gurgling and discolored sobs echoed off the walls and crawled inside Iwaizumi’s ears like cotton worms. Dread wound itself around him, thorny tendons sprouting from a rose that would never grow petals. Iwaizumi wanted to scream. He tried to call for Oikawa, but his tongue refused to work with him. It sat in his mouth like a lump of clay, glueing his teeth together.

Outside, the lights flashed merrily and commuters and party-goers rushed from one train station to another, all blissfully unaware of the things that had transpired in this tiny room, only floors above them. Iwaizumi wished he and Oikawa could have been two of them, just a normal couple coming home from a White Day dinner out. He clung to the laughable promise of _next year_ , repeating the words in his mind until he lost consciousness.

 

*****

 

Iwaizumi’s world pieced itself together slowly. He shied away from the blinding white light that greeted him when he blinked his eyes open, his face contorting into an expression of disapproval. The first feeling that came to him was an itch in his throat, alerting him of his body’s dependence on fluid.

Salvation came in the form of a large glass of water on the bedside table. A box of painkillers sat beside it — a familiar sight. Bones creaking, he tried to sit up in a more favorable position, but before he could reach for the glass, a gentle hand pushed him back into the pillows.

“Let me.”

Bandages. Someone had carefully bandaged that hand, thick swaths of gauze wrapped around it like a protective glove. Iwaizumi’s eyes finally adjusted to the light, and they fell on Oikawa’s pale face, bottom lip worried between his teeth. He was alive. They were both alive.

Oikawa pressed a button on the panel by the headpiece of Iwaizumi’s bed, slowly elevating him into a sitting position. A dull sort of  pulsing went through Iwaizumi’s thigh, nothing more and nothing less. He was probably still high on pain suppressants. One of his own hands was bandaged too, though it was clearly visible why. The IV cannula in the back of his hand was connected to a bag of clear fluid that hung from a saline stand, the drops falling in a lax rhythm. Oikawa passed him the glass of water, waited for him to gulp it all down and then returned it to the table.

“Are you okay?” Iwaizumi asked, turning his head to take in Oikawa’s face.

Oikawa’s eyebrows were furrowed, his lips trembling. “You lost a lot of blood,” he said, completely ignoring Iwaizumi’s question. “The doctors said they got the bullet out and that they patched you up, but you just wouldn’t wake up. I thought ...”

“I’m awake now,” Iwaizumi said softly. “I’ll be okay. I’ve been through much worse.” With his non-IV hand, he searched around for Oikawa’s and twined their fingers together. It felt good to have him here. Waking up to Oikawa was a treasured routine, no matter the circumstances. It was that thought that made Iwaizumi still abruptly. “Wait. How late is it?” he asked.

“Just past five. The sun’ll be up in a bit.”

Iwaizumi groaned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really fucked up our White Day. And sorry about the suit, I guess.”

Oikawa blinked at him in confusion for a moment, but then he understood. He shook his head, a tiny smile on his lips. “Don’t worry about it, Iwa-chan. We saved Yachi-san, you know? Her mother was absolutely hysteric when she came here to see her daughter, thanking me over and over. She’ll stop by later, I assume. I told her to thank you as well, since you took the job and all.”

All of that was great news. “But what about our date?”

“It’s cute that you’re so concerned about it,” Oikawa said. “But I really don’t care. You’re alive, and that’s all that matters. I did bring you something, though.”

Curiously, Iwaizumi’s eyes followed Oikawa as he bent down and out of sight for a moment. When his head popped up again, his facial features were more relaxed than before. He was holding a slim box of chocolates in his hands.

Iwaizumi’s lips twitched into a smile. “You’re late.”

“And you’re terrible, Iwa-chan. Do you want to try them?”

Iwaizumi almost said yes, but then decided against it. “Put them on the table. I’ll have some later.”

Oikawa nodded and bent over to set his gift down. It seemed he hadn’t gotten hurt anywhere else but his hand, which was a relief. Before he could sit back down, Iwaizumi snatched his wrist and pulled him in close. Brown eyes stared down at him in surprise, and Iwaizumi watched their shape shift from big and round to crinkled at the edges, warmth seeping into his body. Oikawa’s lips were chapped, but Iwaizumi could not bring himself to care. He kissed him back, endlessly thankful that he still could. No chocolates in the world would be able to compete with this.

More White Days, Valentine’s Days, regular days would come. They could never be sure they would spend them the way they planned — some of them might be job days and some not.

The thought wasn’t exactly a happy one, but as Oikawa pressed more kisses to his lips, Iwaizumi decided that it wasn’t a bad one either.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading! i know this is still lacking a ton of worldbuilding/background info and its probably the most generic secret agent au ever but if anyone would care for it i might flesh it out in a longer fic someday haha like there's defnitely more for it in my head


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